“Your blood was drawn at Queen of Angels,” he said. “The blood-alcohol content was measured at point-one-one, according to the LAPD. That is beyond the legal limit.”
Haller nodded as though he knew what was coming and relished the chance to attack the accusation.
“The measurement was point-oh-six — check your source on that, Tyler,” he said. “The LAPD then used a faulty B-A-C extrapolation formula to push it past to the point-oh-eight threshold at the time of arrest. This formula will not bear the scrutiny of the courts and I will be exonerated.”
Bosch needed to go get the car and bring it around but he wanted to watch Haller work. He had such ease and control with the crowd of reporters. Unintimidated, undaunted. Bosch marveled at it. No wonder he was a killer in front of a jury.
“But you have been arrested for DUI in the past, isn’t that so?”
It was a question from a different reporter. Haller shook his head.
“This isn’t about the past,” he said. “This is about right now and the question of whether we want our police department to be targeting law-abiding citizens. The intrusion of the government into our lives is pervasive. Where do we make a stand? I’m making mine right here.”
The questions started getting repetitive or bizarrely far afield. It was pretty clear the reporters weren’t going to run out of things to ask until Haller ran out of responses. The assemblage was a mixture of legitimate local news media and softer entertainment reporters. Haller was one of those rare people with a foot in both camps. The last question Bosch heard before turning a corner to head toward the parking garage was someone asking Haller if he had been in touch with Matthew McConaughey and if there would be a sequel to The Lincoln Lawyer film.
Haller said he didn’t know.
13
Haller was starved, having passed on the baloney sandwich and apple offered at the jail for breakfast. But he wanted to get his car and cell phone back before eating.
Aronson split off to go back to work on her own courthouse caseload and Bosch drove Haller to the Official Police Garage in Hollywood to reclaim his Lincoln Town Car. Along the way Haller told him about the arrest and how he was sure the plainclothes officers who popped him had been lying in wait. Nothing Bosch heard in the story supported that and it appeared to him to be a pure case of paranoia. He did think it was curious that he had been pulled over by officers in plain clothes. He wondered if Haller had strayed into a vice operation.
The OPG contract belonged to Hollywood Tow on Mansfield Avenue. Haller paid the impound fees without dispute and the attendant handed him his car keys. Haller stared at them in his hand and then looked at the attendant.
“Did you people break into my car?” he asked.
The man looked at the document Haller had just signed.
“No, sir, we didn’t,” the man said. “No broken locks, it says the vehicle was OOA — open on arrival. We track that sort of stuff, sir. You want to challenge that or make a complaint, I can give you the paperwork to fill out.”
“Really? I bet they’d jump right on it. Tell you what, just tell me where the car is.”
“Space twenty-three. Down the main aisle and on your left.”
Bosch followed Haller to the car. The first thing he did was grab his phone off the front seat and check to see if it had been tampered with. It was password locked and appeared to have been untouched. He then popped the trunk and looked through three side-by-side file boxes, ticking the tabs with his finger as if to make sure all the files were there. He then went to the backseat and grabbed his briefcase. He opened it on the roof of the car and checked its contents.
“They had plenty of time to copy anything they wanted,” he said.
“They?” Bosch asked. “Who?”
“Whoever. The cops that pulled me over. Whoever sent them.”
“You sure you want to play it this way?”
“How else should I play it?”
“I think you’re being a little paranoid. You were in there drinking for three hours by my count.”
“I was pacing myself and I wasn’t inebriated and certainly wasn’t impaired. When they pulled me over I got out and locked the car. With the keys inside it. Now the guy in there tells me it was unlocked when the tow truck arrived. Explain that.”
Bosch said nothing. Haller snapped the briefcase closed and looked at him.
“Welcome to the other side of the aisle, Harry. Let’s go eat. I’m fucking starved.”
He stepped over and closed the trunk. Bosch saw that the license plate said IWALKEM.
He reminded himself that he never wanted to be seen riding in the car with Haller.
They drove separately to Pink’s on La Brea and grabbed one of the tables in the back room after getting their food. It was early for lunch and the line was manageable. While Haller ravenously ate his foot-long, Bosch told him about his visit with Da’Quan Foster and what Foster had said about his broken alibi. Haller didn’t bother to wipe the mustard off his mouth until he had finished the hot dog.
“Hard to believe he’d be willing to go to prison over a secret like that,” Bosch said.
“He’s a proud guy and he’s got standing in the community. Plus the wife and kids. He didn’t want to see all of that undone. Besides, I think when you’re innocent, you always think deep down that you’ll be saved, that the truth will set you free and all of that bullshit. Even an old gangbanger like him believes the fantasy.”
Bosch pushed his untouched hot dog across the table to Haller and shook his head.
“Bullshit.”
“I know it is.”
“No, I’m not talking about the truth setting you free. I’m talking about your bullshit.”
“Me? What bullshit?”
“Come on. This whole thing was a setup. You set me up.”
“I’m not seeing that.”
“You led me down the path, Mick. Put the scent in my nose and knew I’d eventually follow it to county and talk to Da’Quan. You knew they have a witness who knocks down his alibi. But you already knew the real story. You knew it all along.”
Haller paused after a bite of the second hot dog. He tried to smile with his mouth full. Then he swallowed and wiped the mustard off his mouth with a napkin.
“How ’bout next time you give me your hot dog you don’t put so much mustard on it?”
“I’ll remember that. Don’t change the subject. What I don’t understand is, if Da’Quan told you the truth about his alibi, why’d he start out lying to me about it?”
“Maybe he didn’t trust you at first. Maybe he was taking your measure.”
“That’s just more bullshit. But it does make me wonder about you not telling me either. You had to take my measure, too?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I did it because I had to get you invested.”
“Invested? Bullshit. You used me.”
“Maybe. But maybe I saved you.”
“Saved me from what?”
“You’re a homicide investigator. The Los Angeles Police Department decided it didn’t need you anymore. There are places — people — that still do.”
Bosch shook his head and brought his hands up on the table.
“Why didn’t you just lay it out for me as it is, then let me make a choice?”
“What, you mean lay out for you that I had a guy accused of the most heinous murder this town’s seen since Nicole Simpson got butchered and that his DNA just happens to be inside the victim and he just happened to lie about his alibi because his real alibi was that he was shacked up in a motel room with a transvestite who goes by the name Sindy as in S-I-N Sindy? Yeah, I guess that would’ve worked if I’d played it that way.”
Bosch didn’t say anything because he sensed there was more. He was right.